The Black Den
by Shadu
Summary: 13 year-old Sherlock has had a history of trying to show the police the error of their ways, but they never listen. However, when they start straying away from the truth of the Black M case, he does whatever it takes despite Mycroft's warnings.


The Black Den

13 year-old Sherlock can see things that the police can't. However, no matter whom he talks to or what he says, the police never take him seriously. He is, after all, only a kid.

He has been able to put it behind him in the past, but the final straw is the case known as the Black M case. Sherlock decides to start investigating on his own and trying to show the police where they went wrong. Mycroft, who is Sherlock's senior by four years, tries to warn his kid brother about the danger of pursuing this case, but Sherlock plunges himself head first into the case, pursuing a black, and perilous, shadow.

Author's Notes: In my headcanon, this actually happens before Consultation, and thus, the characters are the same distance apart in age. If you notice, I even have a small reference to this story in Consultation.

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

Sherlock hovered in the shadows, just barely poking out into the light. He found he was unwilling to breathe for fear they would hear him even though they had left the warehouse. He waited until the footsteps had died away, and the yells of the men had dissipated into the distance. He waited for a few more moments until the only sounds he could hear was the pounding of the rain on the tempered glass roof and the groans of pain from the man laying in the middle of the floor. He stuck his head out of the shadows, and waited, watching. He could see his breath in the chilly air, rising from his mouth like a cloud and catching the sparse, grey light. He ducked back into the darkness when he thought he heard something. He listened intently, scanning the area as well, and heard it again. However, he saw it was just the injured man feebly shifting.

Sherlock emerged from the shadow as a deer would from the forest, taking cautious, calculated steps into the light until he was no longer in the comfort and protection of the crates and boxes. Then, he sprinted over to the injured person, kneeling down beside him.

"Mycroft," he hissed, shaking his brother's shoulder.

Mycroft moaned and rolled over with Sherlock's aid, looking up at Sherlock. "I knew you hadn't left," he wheezed.

"How could I?" Sherlock asked. He was examining his brother and the area around him.

Blood was seeping from a wound in Mycroft's side and was creating a pool below him. Mycroft's hand was covering the wound as best it could, but even he couldn't stop the flow. He had other injuries, such as a graze on his shoulder and a bruise forming on his cheek, but they were trivial. Sherlock looked around to decide the best way out.

The warehouse was old, but had recently been renovated. Though the metal walls were rusted and creaking, the pillars on the inside were new and sturdy. There were large panes of frosted glass which replaced large chunks of corrugated metal in the ceiling. That was definitely a new feature. No warehouse in this area had that until about five years ago, and the rest of the siding was at least twice that old, judging by the amount of rust and weather on it. There was a large bay door that lifted to allow cargo in. Four doors stood around the edges as well, a door to each all. One was on the wall beside the bay door, one on the back, and the others were on the side walls, mirroring each other. The two men had gone through the side doors. The best course of action seemed to be to go out the back door since the men would be far away from it and it would afford them some cover. The back end of the warehouse would be in darkness. The criminals shouldn't have been near the warehouse at this moment anyway, but the shadows would afford them some protection. Sherlock was sure the men weren't close by, but they were still in the area and would return as soon as they realized he hadn't actually gotten away.

"If we're going to escape, we have to do it now," Sherlock urged.

He tugged on Mycroft, trying to stand his brother to his feet. Sherlock wrenched Mycroft's injured shoulder, causing him to yelp in pain. Sherlock clamped his hand over Mycroft's mouth. His eyes darted around as he listened for any sound outside. When he was confident he hadn't heard any new sounds, he removed his hand from Mycroft's mouth.

"Come on Mycroft," Sherlock whispered. "We have to get out of here."

Mycroft staggered to his feet after several false starts. Despite his weak knees, he finally managed to stand, leaning heavily on Sherlock. Sherlock swayed a little under the unexpected weight, but rose up, putting a hand to Mycroft's chest to help ease the strain. Sherlock swung Mycroft's uninjured arm over his neck and gripped Mycroft's wrist. Mycroft kept his other arm around his ribcage, hand pressing on his wound. Sherlock started stumbling forward, swaying. Mycroft moved his legs, but caught his toe on a crack pitched forward. Sherlock lunged with him to keep Mycroft on his feet, grunting with the effort. After Mycroft had regained his footing, they began to move again. The pair was able to get up to a brisk walk, sprinting as they dashed to the back door.

They ducked back into the shadow and stopped when they reached the door. Sherlock grasped the rusty handle with one hand and turned it. He tugged on it again and again, each tug getting more frantic, until it opened gave way and opened. Sherlock staggered backwards and let go of Mycroft involuntarily. Mycroft Managed to stay on his feet, but Sherlock fell to the floor, landing hard on his back. The cold breeze of the night air came in, relieving the stuffy warehouse of its suffocating properties.

Mycroft started to sink to the floor, just wanting to sit down and rest, but Sherlock stood to his feet and caught his brother.

"No, no, you can't do that," Sherlock swung Mycroft's arm back over his neck. "Not yet."

Sherlock warily poked his head out the door and looked around before stepping out and closing the door.

It was dark outside. The sun had set hours ago, but there were still many to go before sunrise. The clouds covered the stars and only minimal light came from the moon when it could poke through the thin parts of the dense cover. Rain fell constantly, and a few flashes of lightning back lit the clouds. Sherlock and Mycroft's breath puffed out in front of them, lazily dispersing in the rain. Their teeth chattered as they made their way through the fridge night. Their clothes clung to their skin, their wounds stung, and their muscles ached. Mycroft's feet often dropped steps and missed the pavement His body had begun to shake and shiver rather violently, but Sherlock kept driving him forward.

The chilled air burned in Sherlock's lungs, searing his throat. His ears burned, wet black hair stung his eyes and obscured his vision. His nose was numb and his head was beginning to throb. Sherlock's entire body was shaking from the cold while his muscles ached under the weight of Mycroft. He licked the water off his split lip and tasted the hint of metal in his blood. The icy water falling on him coupled with the freezing air made the scrapes on his cheek flare. His leg ached from where it had been struck, but he ignored it, steeling himself. He didn't have the time to be weak.

Mycroft limped along beside Sherlock. He was having a hard time focusing. His feet were becoming more difficult to maneuver. The pain in his side was all encompassing. He found himself reluctant to breathe. His flared with pain and the bitter air agonized his throat every time he breathed in.

The pair followed the river. Every warehouse they passed was dark and uninhabited. Even when they passed a pub or a restaurant, the windows were barred and closed. Sherlock wasn't sure what time it was as he did not have his watch on, but he would hazard a guess that three AM. The fact that the pubs were closed would indicate that it was well into the night, usually after two or three. The deserted streets also gave credence to that. The fact that there were no ships passing by on the Thames indicated that it was closer to three as there are no ships scheduled to come into this dock area from 2:45 to 3:30 AM.

He looked up and saw a glimmer of hope. It was a light on in one of the windows ahead. A pub was still open, from the looks of it. It was at the end of the street, but he could see the light.

"Come on," Sherlock urged, trying to speed up.

Mycroft groaned his protest, but attempted to keep up with him. Even so, his legs just couldn't keep up the pace. He just about knocked Sherlock down. Sherlock allowed himself to feel like they had a chance. They were nearly there and the light was still on. However, they were a block away when they shop front went dark. They watched as the bartender stepped outside, pulled up his collar, shut the door, and locked it.

"Wait!" Sherlock called. "Wait! Waaait!"

The tender didn't hear him. He went around the corner, got in his car, and drove away.

"Wait…" Sherlock panted, letting the word die away.

The rain was relentless. It came down in swells, chilling the two boys. Sherlock looked around and contemplated what to do next. Their current line of action was getting them nowhere. Since it was so late at night, the chances of them finding any establishment that was still open, and relatively non-threatening, was nil. Of course there were clubs that would still be open, but those were seedy places. Who knows what kind of infection an injured man, like his brother, could potentially pick up there? Besides that, there were no clubs in this part of town within an acceptable walking distance. However, he knew his brother. Mycroft would not be one to take a bus or the Tube. He certainly wouldn't have walked from their house to the warehouse. That only left one option.

"Where did you park?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" Mycroft weakly lifted his head.

"Your car. Where did you park it?" Sherlock repeated. "I know you had to drive it here."

Mycroft blinked, concentrating, trying to think through the pain. He managed to respond, telling Sherlock where he remembered parking. Or he thought he remembered parking there. He was finding it difficult to think.

The car was a half mile away from their current location. He had parked near a riverside strip mall, even though it was set a bit further back from the Thames. It was near a popular pub and restaurant, or at least he believed it was there.

"Okay," Sherlock nodded. He took a second to catch his breath before heading off in the direction Mycroft had indicated.

They walked along the slick, wet sidewalk. Puddles were forming everywhere, and a harsh wind was beginning to pick up. It blew on the two brothers, showering them with rain and stinging their eyes. The streets were utterly deserted. They didn't even see a dog on their trek, though Sherlock was sure he heard one in the distance. The wind howled, and Mycroft moaned, and Sherlock carried on silently. Their pace was slowing as Sherlock grew more and more fatigued.

They had gotten a quarter of a mile on their journey, and Sherlock was about to give up hope finding the fabled car, when he spotted a sign in the distance. It said "Foxhard Bar and Grill."

"Mycroft, is that it?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft didn't answer. Sherlock looked down to see the back of his brother's head. Sherlock's heart leapt and he gave Mycroft a good shake.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shook him again.

"What?" Mycroft moaned.

"Is that it? Foxhard Bar and Grill?" Sherlock inquired.

Mycroft pulled his head up and blinked several times, focusing his eyes. "Yes…yes that's it."

Sherlock, spurred on by the discovery, started moving quicker. He got to the corner intersection and saw Mycroft's sleek black car just around the corner, hidden away on a street that would normally be lined with cars. Mycroft hadn't parked that far away from the warehouses but Sherlock had gone past the street that would've taken him quickly to the car. Because of this, they had to back track a ways to find it. Sherlock cursed his judgment under his breath. He should've asked Mycroft about the car from the beginning.

They came up next to the car and Sherlock lowered Mycroft down onto the sidewalk, easing his body onto the concrete asphalt next to the car which Mycroft used to prop himself up . He groaned, clutching his wound harder than before. Sherlock's hands were shaking as he rummaged through the pockets on the pants of his brother, searching for the keys. Damp black hair fell in his face, obscuring his vision. His cheek stung when the chilling rainwater hit it and his whole body throbbed and ached, but he told himself this was nothing compared to the pain Mycroft felt.

Mycroft forced out a cough and managed to rasp out, "They're in my coat."

Sherlock didn't hear him and continued to search his brother's pants pockets, sifting through papers and coins.

Mycroft tried again, a little louder, but he only managed to get out, "Coat, Sherlock."

Sherlock heard him and began searching the coat pockets. He used one skinned and bloodied hand to push his hair out of the way while the other continued to sift through the contents of the pockets. Mycroft groaned when Sherlock brushed up against a wound.

"Sorry," Sherlock apologized.

After several moments more of searching, he pulled out the keys finally. He picked the car key and shakily put it in the lock of the car. The door opened with a click and Sherlock pressed the button to unlock all the doors. He pulled open the back door and carefully looped his arms around Mycroft's, just under the armpits. He tugged on his brother, attempting to pull Mycroft up into the car.

Mycroft let out an agonized wail, and Sherlock bit his lip to try and keep his composure. He felt tears well up and prick at his eyes. He tried not to look at the wound, to think about what was under Mycroft's hand. For the first time in his incredible memory, his mind was racing, but every thought was focused solely on one thing.

His brother.

Sherlock ignored Mycroft's cries of anguish pulled him up and backwards into the back seat. Sherlock grunted with the effort of moving the dead weight. Mycroft tried to help move his body into the car but his feet just slipped on the wet pavement.

"Come on Mycroft," Sherlock grunted.

Sherlock finally managed to drag his brother up onto the seat and lay him out across the cushions. Mycroft's hand returned to his side and pressed against it, whimpering softly. Sherlock pulled off his coat and laid it on his brother. It was wet and useless, but it made Sherlock feel a bit better.

Mycroft was pale and cold, though was impossible to tell if his tremors were from the weather or his condition. He used his unoccupied hand to pull the coat tighter around him.

Sherlock took a moment for a steadying breath or two while trying not to look at his brother's pallor. He took the opportunity to think things through a bit. In the meantime, Mycroft struggled to push himself up, propping his head up on the door.

Mycroft wasn't very secure just lying in the back seat, but he couldn't really sit up and it was almost impossible to buckle someone in while they are lying down. He would have to be creative.

After he caught his breath, Sherlock closed the door and ran around to the front passenger's side door. He opened it and pushed the seat as far back as it would go. Even though there was still a gap between the edge of the back seat and the back of the front seat, it was a rather small one. Sherlock found it doubtful that Mycroft's body could fit in it.

Sherlock scooted the driver's seat back too, finding that he could still reach the pedals if he sat straight up on the edge of the seat. This would at least give Mycroft a more a cradle and more security. He sat in the seat and pushed it forwards and back to make certain it had clicked into place and wouldn't shift.

Sherlock stuck the key in the ignition and started up the engine. Mycroft, in some of his weaker moments, had given in to his little brother's requests and taught the boy how to drive. It had started out as a small affair in a parking lot, but over time, ended up on streets. Sherlock had also stolen the car multiple times and improved his skills, mostly when Mycroft was otherwise busy. Driving was easy anyway, Sherlock had discovered, but with his emotions in such a state, he was finding it difficult.

Putting the car into gear and undoing the parking break, he pulled out of the space and stepped on the pedal, speeding up and racing through the streets. He knew where he was and where he needed to go. The hospital, or at least the one he wanted to go to, was about a twenty minute to half hour drive by the speed limit. It took longer once traffic was factored in. With the streets empty, Sherlock was sure he could get there faster. There was nothing mobile to avoid hitting.

The drive was silent save Mycroft's groans of pain and his raspy breathing. Sherlock's eyes darted from side to side, keeping a vigilant lookout for other drivers and policemen. It was late at night, and the streets were still and empty as far as he could see. The shadows were deep and dense, extending back into alleys and streets. Lamp light did little to illuminate the path and the rain shrouded the rest of the road. It was creepy, eerie, not helped by the constant reminder than Mycroft was slipping slowly away. He flew onto the bridge over the Thames. By his estimate, he would be able to reach the Royal London Hospital in record time, but it was time that Sherlock wasn't sure his brother had.

The drive over the Thames would've normally been rather nice. During the day, the water glittered in the sunlight and at night, it would sparkle by moonlight. The ferries and boats would bustle along and the city would be alive and vivacious, the Thames at the heart of it all. Now, he couldn't see it through the pounding rain and the wiper blades. The dark clouds blocked out the moonlight, so only ghostly shafts of light came through, fading before they ever reached the water's surface. It truly felt like a desolate night, fit for dying.

No! Sherlock briefly shook his head, chasing the thought of out of his mind. No, he wouldn't not consider that. No one was dying tonight. Not him, and certainly not Mycroft.

Mycroft started mumbling between labored inhales. Sherlock was only able to catch snippets of speech. It sounded like an apology of some sort. Maybe he was apologizing to father? No, that wasn't it. Mycroft would never apologize to him; he had no reason to.

"Sherlock…I'm sorry," Sherlock managed to hear after much concentration. "I failed…as a brother…"

"No, no, Mycroft," Sherlock called back. "Stop apologizing. You're not going to die. Now just hush. Save your energy. If you keep talking…if you keep talking, it won't help anyone."

But Mycroft's ramblings continued, becoming more labored and more incoherent and disjointed. Sherlock wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, trying to just focus on the task at hand.

"You're not going to die! You won't, you can't," Sherlock insisted. "You can't die! If you do, then what was the point?" Sherlock was beginning to yell. "If you die, I'll never forgive you. You never should've come after me anyway. It's all your fault. You were stupid."

He hit the road on the other side of the bridge. He wasn't that far away. It was just a little longer and then Mycroft would be okay.

Sherlock took a shaky breath. "Please Mycroft. Please don't die. I'll do anything. I'll confess everything to dad. I'll stop this crusade. I'll listen to you the next time you say something, but you can't die."

He sped through the streets, spraying water as the car zoomed through puddles. His injured leg ached at the strain of sitting as he was and his already-tired muscles protested at being used in such a fashion. Mycroft had gone silent save his breathing, which was getting harder and harder by the sounds of it. Sherlock felt tears prick at his eyes again. He knew he wouldn't make it. He just had this feeling. He would lose his brother, his only consolation. They certainly didn't see eye to eye all the time, nor did they even like each other all the time, but Mycroft was all he really had. Mom was dead and dad was never around. It was just the two of them, and Sherlock didn't want to think what would happen if it was just him.

Sherlock sniffled, trying to keep himself from crying. Then, he squinted. He could see, in the distance, the hospital rising up above the other surrounding buildings.

"Not far now," he said through a choke. "You're going to be okay."

Mycroft didn't respond. Sherlock wasn't sure if he even heard, but he said it again. "You'll be okay." Three simple words. Three words that Sherlock hoped that if the both of them might believe if said it again.

While Sherlock's attention zeroed in on the hospital hidden in the shower of rain, he failed to noticed a police car sitting just off the road on a cross street. The black car whizzed past, and the lights came on, then the siren. The officer pulled onto the road, chasing after Sherlock.

Sherlock heard the sirens and his heart leapt. He started to sweat, and his mind raced over the facts. He was an underage kid driving a car he clearly did not own in the middle of the night with an injured person in his back seat. There would be misunderstandings no matter what he did. Sherlock carefully considered his possibilities anyway. One was to try and out run the officer. If he sped up more, he could most likely make it to the hospital first. It wasn't that far away, easily within a mile. However, that might make things worse when the officer did catch up with him. The way Sherlock saw it, the officer would not take kindly to him running away despite the good intentions. Another option was to try and lose him by winding through back alleys and streets. He knew the street layout well and given his head start, he could take a long way through alleys and side streets to lose the officer and get to the hospital. The problem was it could easily take ten to fifteen minutes to successfully accomplish this and Mycroft couldn't last that long. The last one was to pull over and let what happened happen. The only worry was that the police officer wouldn't listen to him or believe him.

Sherlock only took a moment longer to choose the best choice of action, and he pulled the car over. One part of his mind screamed at him because the hospital was so tantalizingly close. He could practically smell the disinfected hallway.

The officer pulled up behind him and swaggered up to the window. Sherlock noted there was another officer still in the car. The police did often come in pairs. Safety first and all.

Sherlock rolled down the window, and started speaking. "Officer, I know this looks bad but—"

"Do you realize how fast you were going?" the officer asked, not listening to Sherlock at all.

"Yes, I know, but it's really impor—" Sherlock started again.

"How old are you?" the officer ignored Sherlock's words.

"Well, I mean, I'm thirteen, but you see—" Sherlock spluttered.

"Thirteen?" the officer's eyebrows rose high. "You don't even have a license and you're speeding at this time of night?"

The officer, Sherlock noted, was young. His scruff indicated that he was most likely worked pretty hard. The bags under his eyes reinforced that belief. Constant night cop then. The way he walked up to the car told Sherlock that he didn't catch people often. Possibly because of incompetence, but time and location was a more probable cause. This area of town wasn't known for its traffic violators at this time of night nor was it really known for its crime rate. He was of a higher rank than the other who sat in the car. Sherlock glanced into his rearview mirror. The other was a rookie female, so this officer was most likely trying to show off. He was single, as indicated by the lack of a ring on his left hand.

"Yes, but you don't understa—" Sherlock protested.

"Get out of the car," the officer commanded, taking a step back to let Sherlock open the door.

"I can't, I have to—" Sherlock was getting desperate. He could barely hear Mycroft at all now.

"Get out of the car," the officer took a step back towards the car.

"But you don't see—" Sherlock's voice was rising.

"Get. Out. Of. The. Car," the officer looked Sherlock right in the eye.

Sherlock spun around and clicked on the cabin light, illuminating the back seat and showing his brother to the officer. The officer took a step back, his brows furrowed. He looked back to Sherlock with his mouth open.

"Listen to me! Please!" Sherlock yelled. "Just once! My brother's injured and it's my fault! And if I don't get him to the hospital, he'll die!"


End file.
